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“You call yourself a Black,” Walburga hisses, and flecks of gravy land on Sirius’s face as his mother spits out her words, “when you dare to consort with Mudbloods, with filth?”

Sirius shrugs and lets out a bark-like, humourless laugh. “She’s a Muggleborn, not a Mudblood, Mother. And I don’t call myself a Black. It’s a name that’s been given to me not out of choice, and quite frankly, I wish I wasn’t part of this f*cked up family just as much as you wish I wasn’t your son, because then, I think we’d all be so much happier—”

“I will not allow such foul language in my household!” Orion roars, and he is on his feet now as well. “I will not permit you to embarrass us in front of your own relatives. You will apologise to your mother, Sirius, for your insolent behaviour!”

He stays where he is for a few seconds, and it is only when Cygnus yells “OUT” for a second time that Sirius stands, kicks his chair back and exits the room.

The trail of silence that follows him is so loud that even Sirius is deafened by it.

God only knows what we’re fighting for
All that I say, you always say more
I can’t keep up with your turning tables
Under your thumb, I can’t breathe

Up in his room, Sirius slowly lets out a moody, smoky breath, tapping the cigarette so the ash falls to the floor. More than anything, he wishes he could be at James’s this summer and not in this madhouse.

Finishing one cigarette, he uses his wand to light another, the last one in the packet. He groans; he’ll have to get some more soon.

The door opens suddenly — whoever it is doesn’t knock, instead simply opening the door, managing to break through his locking charms as easily as if they are Muggle locks.

He sits up on his bed, leaning against the headboard, a little disappointed that it isn’t Cygnus or either of his parents. But he’s also surprised, because Bella doesn’t usually come to his room.

“Yes?” he says almost — but not quite — politely.

“That was quite a performance you put on back there,” she tells him, entering without asking his permission. Then again, this is Bella. She’s hardly going to say “please”.

“Really? I thought you’d disapprove.”

“Why is that?” she asks silkily, seating herself on his bed, again without asking.

“I was...” He pauses, looking for the right words, and then continuing, “...’consorting with Mudbloods’, according to Mother.”

“Well, yes, you were. But it was purely out of — desire, was it not?”

“It’s hardly your business.”

“You’re family, Sirius,” she replies, her tongue caressing the sibilance of the “s”. “Of course it’s my business. Or else—” Pausing, she reaches forward and plucks the cigarette from his fingers. “—I make it my business.”

“Oi!” he says loudly. “That’s mine!”

Bella lets out a dry laugh. “Dear cousin, what’s mine is mine and what’s yours... is also mine.”

Taking a drag, she exhales, letting a thin, black stream of smoke escape from her lips — her crimson lips, the colour of blood, only darker — and she flicks the cigarette so the ash floats into the air and then, without warning, drops onto his bedsheets. Not that she cares. Lifting her legs, she rests her feet on his bed, taking another drag from her cigarette, and the dark air leaves her mouth again as she lets out another breath. He watches her, frowning.

“Why are you here, anyway?” he asks belligerently.

“I want to teach you a lesson.”

“I don’t need teaching,” he snarls at her.

“Oh, I think you do. You need to learn to respect your superiors, little Sirius...”

He slams the door shut behind him and starts walking, ignoring the shouts that follow him, and then he breaks into a run, not stopping until he has reached the park and is out of breath and keeling over, a stitch stabbing into his side. Some of his anger has abated by now, the air cooling his cheeks, the sweat trickling down his face becoming colder.

Tonight, the streets are empty; no doubt most people are inside their houses tonight, celebrating Christmas. The Blacks’ idea of celebration, however, is anything but enjoyable. Sirius’s mind is still a little hazy, for he has been drinking quite heavily for most of the evening.

It isn’t long before the pain in his side eases to only a slight ache, and he breathes slower, settling on a swing in the deserted park. He drags his feet on the ground, back and forth, back and forth, trying to steady himself and the whirling, angry thoughts like a hurricane in his brain. The sky has darkened to a deep blue, and he stares up at it, wishing, not for the first time, that some kind of force would lift him up into the heavens so he would never have to so much as look at his hated family or hear their even more hateful morals ever again.

He hasn’t done anything wrong. He hasn’t. His uncle and his father and his mother and his aunt, though, they’re in the wrong. They always have been. Sirius can barely remember what the argument was about; all he can recall clearly is lots of drunken yelling, several fists colliding with noses and curses being thrown, from both sides.

He’s so lost in his memories that it is only when he hears the creak of the swing beside him that he realises he isn’t alone.

“Well, well, well... going somewhere, are we?”

Her dangerously quiet voice, so soft that he can just about hear it, makes him halt in his tracks. F*ck.

“What do you want, Bella?” he asks, trying to seem belligerent, careless, even. But it’s pointless to try and mask his fear — she knows him too well. Far, far too well.

She shrugs, getting off the swing and taking a few more steps towards him. Unconsciously, he shrinks back, and she laughs — a chilling laugh that makes his toes curl in anticipation. “Don't worry. Do you think I’m going to hurt you, dear Sirius?” He doesn’t respond, though when she inches forward, he stands his ground this time. “Good boy,” she says softly.

“I’m not a boy,” he retorts angrily.

“Tell me something, Sirius,” she interrupts, “where are you going?”

“None of your business.”

“You’re family — of course it’s my business.”

And there it is again. That insistence that everything is hers and nothing is his. That does it, for Sirius; that’s what pushes him to the very edge and ignites the flame in his brain and makes his mind implode.

“No, it’s not,” he finally spits. “F*ck you. And f*ck this bloody family, too. I am so sick and tired of hearing the same spiel about purity and how bad it is to have any Muggle lineage and how much of a bad Black I am. And you as well, Bellatrix — d’you think I don’t know how much you f*ck with my head?” He pushes, hard, at her shoulders, and she lets out a yelp of surprise and pain as she falls to the ground. He just laughs, feeling weirdly tall. “Well, guess what? I’m done with it. I’m leaving, and I’m not coming back. Somehow, I doubt anyone will be complaining.”